


The Hero or the Monster in Her Story

by kittykatknits



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, F/M, R plus L equals J, Smut, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-10 23:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittykatknits/pseuds/kittykatknits
Summary: For the following prompt on tumblr: Request: Sansa tells Jon she's in love with him and, even if Jon's in love with her too, he tells her he doesn't love her that way because they still think they're siblings (Sansa doesn't believe him at first because of how he looks at her...). But then the truth about Jon's parentage is told and he wants to fix it!





	1. Chapter 1

The stories Sansa enjoyed as a child told her love was instant, a feeling ignited with a single shared glance or a brief exchange of words. Jon had never believed in her stories to begin with.  It was only years later, after so many days and nights of shared company, that Jon finally understood the truth. They were both wrong.

For them, love revealed itself slowly and in the smallest of ways. Jon would find himself admiring the individual shades of red in her hair, the blood red of a weirwood leaf or the bright shine of copper mixed in with the simple brown of auburn. It showed itself once more as they struggled to feed their people during the long, cold nights of winter. He had only kissed Sansa’s cheek but his lips were too close to her own, had lingered too long to ever be called brotherly. Love showed itself again the night she came to his room and offered him her favor. The way her fingers caressed his skin as he accepted the scrap of fabric was not the innocent touch of a sister.

Now, as Jon stepped out of the stables with Arya, he was confronted with another truth, Sansa’s stories often ended in tragedy. “Who is that man with your sister?”

She followed the direction of his eyes to see Sansa strolling with a young man. His cloak bore a pair of crossed bronze keys. Jon decided he looked like a pig-faced aurochs. “Ask her. I wouldn’t know.”

He would not. The woman he once called sister gazed up at the stranger, the two of them lost in conversation. “You spend more time with her than I do. Is Sansa…is she happy?” Once, they had spent every moment together they could find, whispering in the many hidden alcoves of Winterfell, enjoying quiet evenings in his solar, or even disappearing into the godswood to escape the heavy responsibilities of ruling for awhile.

Arya glanced at him as if he’d lost his wits. “Sansa hides everything from us. A few days back, I found her writing at her desk. I could tell she was crying even though she tried to hide it.”

“Did she tell you who she was writing too?”

“I already said she hides everything from us. You could ask her.” Arya had already lost interest. The two sisters were closer than they’d once been, but, even so, Sansa did not share her deepest thoughts with her.

The two of them said their goodbyes before Arya left, moving in the direction of the armory. Jon suspected she would be spending the next several hours training with Brienne as he could no longer spare the time, the demand of ruling took much from him.

Jon walked through the courtyard, towards the maester’s turret when he spied Sansa once more. She stood with that Locke man by the library and for a brief moment, she glanced at him. Their eyes met before Sansa hastily looked away, her features settling back into the usual placid expression she so often wore in his presence. It made no matter, Jon saw what she tried so very hard to keep hidden away. She felt the same pain as he did, except in this story, he was not the hero, nor were they doomed lovers forever kept apart by the fates. In their story, Jon, craven that he was, became her monster. He did not think she could ever forgive him.

That evening, Sansa took her place at his right side as she always did for supper in the great hall. She wore a gown of blue silk, her hair braided and pulled to the side in the northern style. She flashed him a polite smile before turning her attention to Bran. All through the meal, Sansa played the role of sibling perfectly, seeing to his needs as the head of House Stark, but no more than was proper. It was the same in all their interactions, Sansa picked every gesture and word with care, she was his sister and gave every sisterly affection but no more. The hidden touches under the table, the gentle stroke of her knees, those were all denied to him now.

“Sansa. Can I ask you a question?”

She gave him her attention, but her expression told him her interest was mild at best. “I have not yet received a letter from White Harbor, I’m sorry.”

Jon knew a deflection when he heard it. “It was not White Harbor I wanted to ask over.” She stayed silent, waiting for him to continue. Sansa wore her armor for him now but she’d set it away earlier, enough so he’d seen the truth. Or, at least, he dearly hoped so. “Do you remember the feast  at Riverrun?”

Her smile was guarded, Sansa could guess at his thoughts. “Of course, how could I not? A great feast to celebrate my family together.” That word had been deliberate, Jon was certain of it.

“The hall was packed with the press of bodies all together, the heat and the sharp glow of torches. The music was loud, jarring even.  It was only us, forgotten in the miserable din for awhile. I shared my plate with you. And my cup.” He spoke quietly, forcing Sansa to lean close in order to here him.

Her eyes grew large at the memory, the meaning behind their actions was not lost to her. They had still thought themselves brother and sister that night but had been caught up in the sweet agony of it. “You must be mistaken Jon, you were deeply in your cups that night.” She spoke in a light voice, dismissively.

“Aye, we were both in our cups, it lent us the courage to behave as we did. Do you remember after? In your rooms-”

Sansa stood abruptly, her movements so quick it surprised others around them. “Forgive me, I have grown tired. Jon, can I ask you to see to our household tonight?” She rushed away, not giving him a chance to answer.

He studied Sansa as she left him, her movements telling him she was torn between wanting to flee away and walking at the correct pace as befitting Lady Stark. Jon poured another cup of ale before losing himself in his thoughts.

Later, either madness or idiocy, Jon did not know which, drew him to her chambers. He wrenched the door open, enjoying the sound of wood as it slammed into the stone walls of her room.

Sansa jumped in shock at his intrusion before rising from her place by the fire. “Jon,” she gasped in surprise. “I’m sorry but I won’t be much company tonight, I’m quite tired.” That was a lie.

“I’m not seeking your company.”

She bristled at that. “You should leave.”

“No, I have a question for you. Earlier today, Arya told me you were crying over a letter. I want to know why.”

Her expression went blank, a habit that came easy to her now. “I could not say, Arya was obviously mistaken,” she said evenly.

“I don’t believe you. Why were you crying?”

“I’m sorry Jon, I cannot help you.”

“You’re lying to me. We may speak little now, but you forget, I still know you better than anyone. I will find out.” Jon intended to ask the maester to direct all of her future correspondence to him first. He was the lord of Winterfell, the man would do it if ordered.

Her careful smile, so often worn these days came back. “I should hope we know each other, you are still my brother, are you not?” Her voice was meant to be reassuring. Even after that wretched night, Sansa still loved and comforted him the day Howland Reed first appeared. “If you will leave, I wish to go to bed.”

Would that he could go with her. “No. Not yet.” Jon felt as if he was standing on top of the wall once more, the fierce winds pushing him from one edge to another. “I lied to you, too, that night. Every word I said, every bit of it was a lie,” he blurted out, taking no care with his words.

Sansa slowly closed her eyes before opening them. It was Jon’s turn to reel in shock from what he saw. Wrath. “Leave my rooms.”

“No, can we talk?”

“There is nothing to say.” He could hear cold anger in her voice.

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“Leave my chambers, or I swear by the old gods and the new, I will begin screaming.” Her anger only seemed to grow.

Several responses came to him and he dismissed each one in turn. She would not listen and he had come too late. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Jon did not know what else to say. As he closed the door behind him to return to his rooms, Jon was reminded of a cruel thought, those were the same two words he’d last uttered before leaving her rooms that night too. Once again, he’d gone from the hero to the monster in their story.

As he lay in his bed that night, sleep eluded him. The hours drifted on, the night sky was pitch black and moonless. The castle was quiet. Finally, as the first rays of grey light came through his window, Jon fell into a fitful slumber as a thought struck him. The opposite of love was not hate but indifference and Sansa was far from indifferent to him, he knew that much. It was a slim hope, but it was all Jon had.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon woke abruptly, as he so often did now, and proceeded to wipe the sleepy itch from his eyes. His slumber the night before had been fitful and restless.

 Almost a fortnight had passed since the day Sansa’s mask slipped. It was a small glimpse and would have been missed by anyone other than him. Her pain stayed with him, not even granting a chance to seek the relief of a dreamless sleep.

He rose, quickly preparing himself for the day in a brown leather jerkin and linen tunic. Jon spied a small tear in the left sleeve and smiled, it gave him an idea. Sansa refused every request he’d made to speak with her over the past fortnight, he did not think she would refuse this.

She was already in the hall, seated at the head table and sipping mint tea. She wore her hair in a thick northern braid, it’s length pulled over a shoulder. Jon rarely glimpsed her hair unbound of late, he’d mostly convinced himself her choice was not a deliberate one. He took his usual place in the center, to her right. A pewter plate appeared in front of him with his breakfast, black bread with honey and preserves, an egg, rash of bacon, hard cheese, and berries. Jon ripped off a chunk of bread, forcing himself to chew and swallow.  

As it often was in the mornings, they were alone at the table, but with too many people about for the conversation he wished them to have. Most of the household guard and stablehands were present, along with the brewer and a fair number of servants.

“Sansa, I need your assistance.”

She faced him, her eyes narrowing and lips drawing back in suspicion. “My assistance?”

“Nothing overly taxing, I assure you,” he said dryly. Jon leaned towards her, bending his shoulder so the tear in his tunic could be seen. “I noticed while dressing this morning. I hoped you could mend it for me.”

Sansa fingered the rip. “The stitching came loose. I’ll send a servant to fetch it tonight.”

That was not his plan. “I’d hoped to bring it to you.”

“It’s a simple repair, Jon, there are many women in the household who can mend a seam.”

“You’ve done it before.” He couldn’t quite keep the petulance from his voice.

She sipped her tea, refusing to so much as look at him. “I lack the time. Repairs to the glass gardens will begin soon and I will be spending much of the day in the kitchens, we will need to order provisions soon. I also want to arrange with a seamstress in the winter town to assist with new gowns.”

Jon ate his food in silence while Sansa merely nibbled at hers like a little bird. She didn’t seem to have much of an appetite of late, he wasn’t sure if it was due to the tension between them or something else. The pig-faced Locke man had departed from Winterfell many days past, he’d never learned the reason for his presence. Jon hoped it was not a marriage proposal, it was a long journey to Oldcastle merely to throttle a single man.

Her mention of new gowns worried at him, she’d spent little coin on her wardrobe, preferring to place their gold into the rebuilding of Winterfell. “Why are you having new gowns made?”

She started, her lips pursing as if deciding how to respond. “Spring is here and the weather grows warmer with every passing day.”

Jon misliked her answer, she was only giving him the partial truth, he was certain. He sighed before rubbing at his eyes once again.

“Are you ill?” She looked at him, her expression concerned. One of her hands rested on his cheek, checking for a fever.

He didn’t answer, choosing to grab her hand and nuzzle into her palm. Sansa attempted to pull away but he held on, keeping her close.

“Jon, you cannot. That is not what we are,” she admonished.

“It would be, if you weren’t so stubborn.” Even so, he kissed her palm before releasing her.

Sansa did not answer, studying others in the hall before looking on him once more. “Is that what you think? I have given exactly what you asked of me.” She paused, trying to decide whether or not to continue. “That seems the very opposite of stubborn.” Jon wondered what else she intended to say.

She began to rise. He grabbed at her skirts, preventing her departure. “What if I ask for something different now?”

Sansa clasped one of his hands but it was more of a sisterly touch than anything intimate. “When you came to see me a fortnight ago, I was angry with you, more wroth than I have been in a very long time. You took something from me, Jon, something I fought harder for than you will ever know. Now, you want something different? I think it’s time for me to decide what I want, don’t you?” She released him suddenly. “I need to go.”

Jon stared after her but she did not look back. He turned to eat the rest of his meal but his appetite was gone. Instead, he sipped the rest of Sansa’s mint tea, grimacing at the sweet honey in it. There was something in her choice of words that nagged at him, but Jon could not figure it out.

If this was one of Sansa’s stories, he would already have risen to give chase, ready to deliver sweet promises of devotion and undying love. Instead, he sat where she left him, as lost as he’d ever been, his hopes resting on that brief moment when her mask slipped. It was a small hope.

Jon left the hall to visit the training yard. The number of household guard was slowly increasing, but not at the rate Jon would like. Years of war had stripped the north of fighting men and a fair number now sworn to House Stark came from the Riverlands and Vale.

After, he went in search of the maester to review any messages that may have arrived via raven. So far, Sansa had not learned about this particular scheme of his. He found the man pushing Bran in his chair towards the godswood.

Taking the messages from the maester, Jon dismissed each in turn until the last. The sun and crescent in blue wax filled him with a sick dread. Opening it, he read the contents and cold anger took him. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, dearly wishing for a sword to wield. Jon kept the letter, handing the rest back to the maester.

“Your sister says I took something from her and I don’t know what to do.” This would be a wasted effort.

“Give her back what you took.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

Bran focused on him, his expression blank. “What could ever lead you to this, Sansa?” The maester began to take him away.

“Where is she?”

“The broken tower.”

Jon did not move, reading Sansa’s letter once more. Despair slowly pooled in his stomach, he understood now what she meant about needing to make her own decisions. She did not want to do so with him and Bran gave him the reason why.

He recognized his cousin’s question, he’d spoken it to Sansa that horrible night in Riverrun. They’d both shared too much wine and he’d ended up following her back to her rooms, knowing what it meant, whether the gods damned them for it or not. In the end, he’d turned craven and placed the blame on her, no different than all the monsters who’d come before.

Letter in hand, Jon made his way to the broken tower, curious why Sansa chose it to hide away. The old wooden door was mostly turned to rot and creaked as he opened it. Jon stepped into the tower, not leaving the doorway, but heard only quiet. Sansa was nowhere to be found.

He called her name but she did not answer back. Instead, he heard sharp taps of her boots meeting the stone step. Sansa stopped by the staircase, looking at him quizzically.

“This tower isn’t safe.”

“It’s stood for hundred of years, I don’t think it’s likely to collapse on my head today.”

“Why are you in here?”

She glanced down at the paper in his hand. “Dreaming a young girl’s foolish dream. Saying goodbye to that same dream.”

“You’re speaking in riddles.”

“You’re stopping my ability to leave.” She sat on the bottom step, hugging her knees as the skirt of her grey dress spread around her. “I was trying to be honest without baring my heart.”

He was keeping her a princess locked in the tower, just as she’d been in King’s Landing and the Vale. Jon sat on the ground beside her, the cold stone wall against his back. He picked up the edge of her skirt and began to idly trace the vines embroidered on the fabric. “I’m tired of being a monster,” he muttered to himself.

“What?”

Jon had not expected her to hear him. “Dreaming a young boy’s foolish dream. I fancied myself your hero when we found each other. I’m no different than all the men that came before.”

Sansa did not answer, her eyes travelling over his face. “Not all of the men, no.” Jon wagered she spoke of Donnel, they’d only spoken of him a few times. “I’m the hero in my story, Jon, not you.”

“Then what am I?”

“I don’t know.” That was far from the answer he hoped for.

Jon handed her the letter from Lady Brienne, he should have done so immediately. “You’re leaving me. Is this why Arya saw you crying?”

Her eyes narrowed in annoyance as she snatched the paper from his hands to read it. “The maester is giving you my correspondence. Should I ask for how long?”

“You refused to tell me what had you upset so I found out another way. I won’t apologize for that.”

“No, I don’t expect you would,” she said bitterly. Sansa idly fingered the wax seal. “I wrote to Brienne asking if I could visit, yes.

“And what are your plans for Tarth?”

“Smell the salt of the ocean air, walk on the white sands, and discover the Sapphire Isle. I intended to tell you when more repairs were completed. Ser Marcus Locke agreed to accompany me as a shield so I will not be alone. As I told you in the hall, it’s time for me to make some decisions.”

Jon thought she was perfectly capable of doing so here in Winterfell. “I could stop you.” It was a tempting idea.

“That’s true. Is that your intention?”

“No. Can I ask you a question?” He waited but she did not respond, peering at him with an expression Jon decided was wary. “If I’d had the good sense to keep my mouth shut that night, would you have married me?”

Her lips drew flat. “You’ve developed a habit of late, expecting me to tell you all my secrets while giving me nothing in return.”

“Seven hells, Sansa, have you been listening to me at all? I’ve been telling and telling you.” He was yelling but could not seem to restrain himself.

Sansa grabbed his arm, drawing it into her lap before stroking him.

“Are you petting me?” He asked in disbelief.

“Is it working?”

“Yes,” he bit out. The idea rankled him. “I thought you no longer cared for me, you played the part so perfectly. I saw though, you’ve been acting this entire time.” She shoved his arm away. He put it back.  

“I’ve given you everything you asked of me, Jon. These are your choices we are living with, not mine.” Sansa stared towards the door, refusing to look at him. She was planning her escape, he’d swear to it. Jon felt as if he was locking her in a tower once more.

“Is that what you think? How could you not know? You always know. Fuck, Sansa, you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Every time, every damn time, you always know what everyone else is thinking or what they want.” His head hung in frustration. Jon had always felt more comfortable with a sword in his hand than playing a game of words. That was Sansa’s skill, not his. “I’m making an utter mess of this.”

Her mouth opened and closed, making him think of a fish. “Smart?” Her eyes began to glisten with unshed tears.

“Of course.” Jon thought it obvious. “I can prove it too.”

“How would you do that?”

“I’ve got something for you, I’ll bring it to supper tonight.” Jon leaned his head back against the tower wall, looked up at the ceiling above him. The air was cool and had a certain stale feel to it. “Why are you in here again?”

She laughed, it sounded beautiful to his ears. “I don’t remember.”

Sansa tried not to think on their conversation as she went through her tasks for the day. Doing so meant she hoped and Sansa did not want to allow that. It was with a mix of dread and sweet anticipation that she watched Jon approach her in the hall once more that evening. Sansa did not spy any sort of gift for her on his person.

“I brought you something.” Jon proceeded to set several letters in front of her, tied neatly with a narrow strip of leather.

She picked them up, recognizing his script on several. “What are they?”

“I’m giving you back what I took, or at least I hope so.” He settled in his usual place to her right, taking a sip from the cup of ale that waited for him. “Will you read them?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Will you speak to me after?”

“I can’t answer so quickly.” She tried to give him a look that would convey some measure of reassurance but he did not take it. Jon wanted more from her than she could give.

The meal passed slowly. Sansa wished for nothing more than to leave the hall, to escape to her rooms and everyone in it. There was an intensity to Jon’s pursuit that unnerved her. He’d been much the same way before until that wretched night. He’d kissed her, desire pooling in his eyes, and then he’d pushed her away. Sansa never understood what she’d done wrong.

Jon ate as if nothing changed between them, or so she thought until she felt him stroking the length of one finger, across her knuckle, before repeating the motion once more. His touch was so light, she could barely feel it. Sansa stole a glance but Jon seemed engrossed in his conversation with the kennel master.

The sky outside had turned black by the time she was able to flee to her rooms. Quickly, she changed into one of her white silk nightgowns and robe before settling in front of the hearth, a cup of Arbor red for company. Sansa read them all, moving from one to the other, before going through them all once more. She sipped at her wine, unable to decide whether or not to honor Jon’s request to speak with him. Sansa could not bear it if he were to repeat that horrid night with her.

Instead, she pulled his tunic from her sewing basket to repair the seam, letting her mind drift, pondering what to do. If Jon was craven, then so was she. Deliberately, Sansa left her wine unfinished, this would not be a repeat of that long ago night.

She rapped at his door. Her belly felt twisted about. Then, Jon was before her, gripping his breeches so they would not fall. He did not wear a tunic.

“I didn’t think you would come.”

“Will you let me in?” He stepped away, letting her enter. Sansa took note of the wine and candles. “You hoped I would.”

He grinned sheepishly. “I won’t deny hoping, but no, I wasn’t expecting it.”

“I repaired your tunic.”

He turned away, tying up his breeches, before taking the garment from her. “Thank you.”

The silence between them grew, neither of them knowing what to say to the other. He was nervous, Sansa took a certain comfort in that. Jon was the saviour of the realm, had faced armies of the undead without fear, but she made him nervous.

“I read them.” Jon could not meet her eyes, having grown fascinated with the weave of his tunic. “You told my uncle he lacked the wits of a goose for not listening to me.”

“He does.”

She pulled another letter. “You wrote to the crown asking that I be granted the lordship.”

He nodded uncomfortably. “It should be yours.”

“Your friend Sam, you told him about us before we knew.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should include that one, worried it might make you angry.”

“No, the opposite. You told him you wanted to marry me.” Sansa set the letters on a nearby table before hugging herself. “I’m listening now, if there is anything you wish to say,” she said shakily.

“I’m sorry.” Jon cupped his neck, stroking the whiskers of his beard. “You weren’t wrong, you’re never wrong. I was struck with the image of your dead brother’s bastard growing in you, so I put an end to us. You didn’t imagine any of it, it was all real, every bit of it. Reckless perhaps, but real. Are you angry?”

“Angry? No.” Struck with a trebuchet, more like. She breathed deep. “Did you ever intend to speak a word of this too me?”

“I thought of you all the the time while I was gone. I did want to marry you, but you played the part of a sister so well, I believed it. Can I ask a question?” She nodded, feeling numb. “If I had not confronted you, would you have left for Tarth without us speaking?”

Sansa looked up at the stone floor, noticing Jon’s lack of shoes or any sort of stockings. “Not a word, no. Our story was done.”

He frowned, not liking her answer. “Would you have sought Donnel to join you there?”

She smiled sadly, thinking of the stablehand. They had been together for less than a single turn of the moon, but it was still a sweet memory. Mya had given her moon tea and she had given him her maidenhead. “He knew me as Alayne Stone and we have not spoken since before I left the Vale. I expect he’s taken a pretty kitchen maid to wife by now.”

“You were leaving me.”

“No, there was nothing or no one to leave.”

“What if I had asked you to marry me?”

“In Riverrun, I would have taken you by the ear and led you to the nearest heart tree. If you’d asked me when you first returned, I would have said yes. Now, perhaps we could learn each other again.”

Jon didn’t particularly like that answer either. “As I expected.” He poured himself a cup of ale. “Wine? It’s red, the kind you like.” He gave her a glass at her nod of acknowledgement. “I was going to bed when you knocked but I’m no longer tired.”

She smiled at him, it felt more genuine than any other she’d given that day. “Nor am I. Do you remember when I’d slip into your rooms at night?”

He grinned. “Sit by the hearth with me?”

Sansa settled against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “You’re warm.”

“I know, you always tell me that.” She could feel him stroking at her hair. “You took your hair down.”

“I never wear the braid to bed. Did I tell you I’ve already ordered lemon trees for the glass gardens?”

He snorted. “Will they take up the whole garden or will there be any room left over?”

“Only two. It’s a very reasonable number.” Sansa thought so.

“It is. Very reasonable, you should get three.”

“Three would be absurd. I’ve decided to rebuild the sept. I’ll be the only one who ever makes use of it but it was my mother’s and I’d like to have that part of her with me again.”

“Are you worried that would bother me? It doesn’t, I’ve heard you pray to the Mother and Maiden before.”

They talked quietly, for how long Sansa did not know. There was a sweet intimacy building between them that had been missing for a very long time. It made her ache. “I suspect we are the only two people left awake in all of Winterfell.”

“No, there are guards, probably grumbling about me from their towers. Do you want to return to your rooms?”

Sansa considered her answer. Jon’s breaths were shallow as he waited for her to speak. She said a silent prayer to the gods that this was not a mistake before telling him, “No, I want to stay with you.” She turned, facing him. He was frightened too. Sansa felt a hand settle on her hip but nothing else. Her toes curled and she leaned in to kiss him. His lips were soft, hesitant. But then she felt his hand slide up her body to grasp her neck before he deepened the kiss. Sansa sighed in pleasure before leaning in to embrace him.

Jon’s touches grew firmer before he broke their kiss. “I could taste your wine.” He began to litter open mouthed kisses along her jaw to the lobe of her ear. Sansa’s head tipped back in pleasure.

She slid her hands down his chest, softly pulling at the curls she found, until she reached the edge of his breeches. Tentatively, she began to untie them. “Jon?”

A sound escaped him, she thought it was a moan, before his hands covered hers to assist. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Mostly she was. “I haven’t since….”

“I’ve only been with the one.”

Sansa untied her robe, laying it on the floor behind her before lifting the hem of her gown.

“Will you let me? Take it off you, I mean.”

She smiled, putting his hands against her thighs. Jon began to slowly pull her gown up, revealing herself to him. “You make me feel as if you’re unwrapping a gift.”

“I am.” Jon pulled the gown, letting it drop next to them. “You’re more beautiful than I imagined.” He touched her breasts, lightly stroking the nipples. Sansa could feel the light shake of his hands.

Suddenly, he was lifting her, flipping them so she lay underneath. “Go ahead,” she whispered. Sansa put her arms around his shoulders before stroking along his back.

Jon looked down at her, their eyes meeting. She could feel his hand between her legs, and then, slowly, he entered her. Sansa hissed. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m not porcelain, I won’t break.”

He grinned. “I might.” He began to move then, his hands braced on either side of her.

Sansa stroked his hips, wanting more. Jon’s eyes grew flooded, twin pools of black. “Faster, like that.” His body pressed against her as he began to thrust in earnest. She loved it, wrapping her legs around him for encouragement. Jon began to grunt against her neck, she could feel the rush of hot breath against her skin. She sighed, hoping for more, but then Jon began to roar as his rhythm broke and he stilled, spilling inside her.

They lay together quietly with Jon keeping his weight on his forearms. “I’m sorry, that was over faster than I wanted.”

“Don’t apologize. I wanted it as much as you did.” She deliberately kept her arms and legs wrapped around him.

“Will you stay with me tonight? Not here in my solar, I want you in my bed.”

Sansa gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Yes, I’ll stay.” If she stayed until morning, gossip about them would be all over Winterfell by morning but Sansa could not bring herself to care, not in that moment.

He pulled away from her to sit up. “I’m going to carry you.”

She let out a shriek of laughter as he did exactly that. They would need to talk again soon and Sansa did not now what she would say, but the two of them could enjoy the rest of the night first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may have a part three, I don't know. I can't make up my mind. It might be done, I'm kinda happy with where I left with it. But, also, I'm not.


End file.
